


Proof

by mcicioni



Category: Raffles (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: "Missing scene" from the episode "Chest of Silver". Bunny wakes up with a hangover after the conversation about ventriloquists' dummies.
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Proof

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written over ten years ago. Thought it would have a safe home here.
> 
> All my gratitude to my original beta reader, who unfortunately has left fandom.

Bunny did not want to open his eyes and face the day. His mouth was as dry as blotting-paper, his head was throbbing, and his stomach informed him that any attempts at movement would result in him becoming quite violently sick all over the sheets and his nightclothes.

Except that he wasn't wearing any nightclothes.

Eyes firmly shut, he tentatively sniffed the air around him: faint traces of a cologne that wasn't his own, mixed with the smell of whisky, sweat, and . . . 

Oh, God. He opened his eyes, praying that the confused memories of the previous night were all whisky-induced, and that he was alone.

Raffles was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking down at him, unsmilingly, speculatively. He was not wearing anything either. Not an unusual sight, considering all the times they had visited the Turkish Baths in Northumberland Avenue, but a totally, terrifyingly unfamiliar one at this time, in this place.

"Good morning, Raffles," Bunny said, happy that he had managed not to stammer, less happy that he had gone first white, then crimson.

"Hmm," was the noncommittal response, and Raffles reached out and ran his nails lightly from Bunny's shoulder down his arm, and then up again, slowly and deliberately. "Is it, Bunny?"

"Er. Well." Shivers were racing down his entire body at the touch, from arm to fingertips all the way to his toes, recalling blurred images and sounds and movements. The blurrier the better as far as he was concerned. He replied almost at random. "Yes. It is. It would be. If I didn't have this beastly hangover, that is. Last night . . ."

"I was there," Raffles said dryly. A large glass of water materialised in his hand. "Drink this."

"But I may . . ."

"No. You may not." Raffles waited until the glass had been emptied, then got up, wrapped a towel around his waist without the slightest appearance of embarrassment, and silently left the room. Bunny closed his eyes, oddly reassured by faint sounds of cupboards being opened and shut.

He jumped a good three inches when his shoulder was shaken. Raffles was standing over him, another glass in his hand. This one was full of a greenish, foul-smelling fluid.

Bunny's stomach lurched urgently. "What's this? Surely you don't want me . . ."

"You don't want to know, and yes, surely I do." The grey eyes were every bit as unflinching as when Raffles was facing an opponent, on the pitch or in a Mayfair living-room.

Resigned, Bunny held his breath and drained the glass. The room spun around a couple of times before slowly settling. Bunny's stomach churned, fizzled, and decided to settle as well. As the throbbing in his head began to subside, he glanced sideways. Raffles had slipped back into bed and was immersed in the _Morning Post_.

"It's _working_ ," Bunny exclaimed happily, the relief momentarily driving away other considerations. "Thanks, old fellow. I knew I could trust you."

"Speaking of trust." Raffles kept his eyes on the paper for a long moment. "We seem to have a little unfinished business here." He folded the paper, put it down on the bedside table, and looked down at Bunny. Was it Bunny's hangover, or was Raffles' voice a little lower than usual, his words a little more carefully spaced? "A couple of things happened last night."

"Er. Yes." First there had been the near heart attack at hearing Raffles' voice coming from the chest of silver. Next, at dinner, there had been Raffles' unbearable smugness at having proved himself "a professor of the professors". Finally, the rambling conversation, both of them sitting on this same bed. A conversation about ventriloquists' dummies, and private soldiers, and generals who don't care what happens to the soldiers as long as they do what they're told. Raffles had reassured him. Had wished him goodnight. Had gone to sleep on the living-room sofa . . .

. . . and then, in the middle of the night, Bunny had been woken up by a call of nature. On his way back from the bathroom he must have stumbled in to the living-room sofa, and woken Raffles. Bunny had a dim memory of a drunken attempt to renew their earlier conversation, and of waffling on again about ventriloquists' dummies . . .

_"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Bunny. I told you that you're my friend and partner, and that I trust you more than anyone else. I'll prove it in front of Mackenzie tomorrow morning. I think that's enough, don't you?"_

_"Prove it now."_ And -- now he remembered it all too clearly -- he had leaned forward and kissed Raffles fully on the mouth. And after one long moment of heartrending desire mixed with equally heartrending terror, Raffles' arm had slid around his waist and pulled him closer. Raffles had not moved away. Had not punched him. Had not laughed at him. Raffles had returned his kiss, with interest. And it was Raffles who had pulled them both up from the sofa and into the bedroom. After that, things had become messy and delicious and chaotic and wonderful, and the memory was enough for his body to let him know that more of the same would be wonderful too, and . . .

A hard nudge in the ribs made him jump, sit up and blush all over again. "Are you actually listening to me?"

"Yes," he said hastily, and then fumbled, "Maybe not. Not sure."

"I was saying," and Raffles' voice was cool and deliberately slow, "that I would like to know whether it was the drink, in which case . . ." the slightest hint of hesitation, "the less said, the better." A brief pause. "Or if you were actually _compos mentis_ , in which case . . ."

They looked at each other. For an awkward second Bunny was fourteen years old, explaining himself to the House captain. Then he remembered the way Raffles' face had lit up while they were touching, the way he had thrown his head back and muttered his name at the most delicious moment. He squared his shoulders.

"I was," he said, defiantly. " _Compos mentis_. The drink was Dutch courage." And the hangover seemed to have vanished, but some of the courage, Dutch or otherwise, was still there. "You must know that ever since school I have always . . ."

Raffles nodded, then addressed the top of the wardrobe. He spoke very low and very fast, but Bunny had good ears. "For me it's a rather more recent thing. Shall we say the night you knocked at my door when I was with Tremayne and Carruthers?"

Rendered temporarily speechless, Bunny could only smile at him. However, Raffles was quick to regain his habitual, supremely confident self-composure.

"Right, that's settled," he said briskly, reaching for Bunny.

"Right," echoed Bunny, like a soldier echoing orders. He lifted a hand to trace the long, winged eyebrows, the elegant nose, the freckled shoulders. Raffles smiled at him, an open, affectionate smile, his eyes softening as he cupped Bunny's cheek, scratched behind an ear, and ruffled the hair on the back of Bunny's head.

"Kneel on the bed," Raffles whispered, following his own instructions and kneeling in front of Bunny. Then he drew him close with one hand and took him firmly in hand with the other. Beaming, Bunny copied his movements and wrapped his fingers around Raffles, desire racing through his body to his fingertips and inspiring him to do a few imaginative things -- so much better without the whisky, so much better when one knew what one was doing and why.

"I've always known you can be resourceful, Bunny," Raffles drawled softly, "and clever," he added, with a gasp as Bunny, inspired by the praise, improvised a little more with his other hand. Bunny blinked. Good heavens, Raffles was letting Bunny have his way with him, which meant trust. Pretty much total trust. Overwhelmed by bliss, Bunny blinked a few more times, slowing down and losing all rhythm.

Raffles frowned at him for a moment, then shook his head, smiling fondly, and wordlessly took over. He covered Bunny's hand with his and brought both hands, and both pricks, together -- amazing, unbelievable, wonderful. Then he began to stroke and pull, slowly at first, maddeningly slowly, then fast enough to make the room start spinning again and Bunny with it, all the time smiling straight into Bunny's eyes. It was all the proof in the world, no more needed, ever.

Soon, too soon, they were both thrusting wildly in each other's shaking fingers, jolting and spilling, and falling back on the bed, in a sticky, laughing tangle.

"Well," grinned Bunny, after he was sure he was not going to have a heart attack this time either," _the Prince of Professors_ is right."

"Not all that much experience, Bunny." For a moment Raffles' voice was unguarded, gentle. "It really helps if one . . ." he checked himself and clasped his hands behind his head. "But we don't want you to get too smug now, do we?"

"You're already smug enough for both of us," Bunny chuckled rather bravely, not minding Raffles' answering cuff on the side of his head.

"However. We've no time to get comfortable," Raffles said decisively, leaning over and taking Bunny's lips in a lingering kiss before jumping up and going to look for the change of clothes he had left in Bunny's wardrobe. "You have to go to Euston to pick up my bags. And I have to be at the Albany before Mackenzie arrives."

Bunny froze at the abrupt change in atmosphere, but Raffles was there with him, pulling him out of bed and pushing him in the direction of the bathroom. Bunny nodded optimistically. Things couldn't possibly go wrong after this. "Friend and partner," Raffles had called him. Yes. He was. And he would show him. Wait and see.


End file.
